


Récit fantasmagorique.

by poetesmaudits



Series: nouvelles fantastiques [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Canon Era, Gen, Ghosts, Romanticism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:08:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27227077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetesmaudits/pseuds/poetesmaudits
Summary: On their way to Spain, Prouvaire and Bahorel stop for a night in a strange hostel.
Relationships: Bahorel & Jean Prouvaire
Series: nouvelles fantastiques [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2006302
Comments: 10
Kudos: 11





	Récit fantasmagorique.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [boom_goes_the_canon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_goes_the_canon/gifts).



> loosely inspired by charles nodier’s “infernaliana” and théophile gautier’s “la cafetière”.  
> content warning: this fic contains brief mentions of past violence/death for minor characters, but nothing graphic. take care and happy halloween!

In October of the year 1829, two young men in their mid-to-late twenties departed from Paris by diligence, towards the south, in the hope to flee the autumnal monotony of the northern Île-de-France for the warmer skies of the Iberian Peninsula.

Whilst it is evident that a great many adventures were lived in Spain, none of their visits of the great mosques or gothic cities were quite as remarkable as the story we are about to tell. A most unnatural and fantastical event occurred not in Madrid, nor in Seville, but rather during one of their halts in the land of Occitany, more specifically in the city of Cahors, in the Quercy. The two young men went by the names of Prouvaire and Bahorel; one was a poet with the soul of a trouvère, the other was a law student (that is, in theory).

There was in those days, in the outskirts of Cahors, a hostel named _Au bon vivant_ , held by a certain M. Collard, a blind septuagenarian assisted by his only daughter, a widow who went back to her own lodgings every night whilst her father remained in the hostel to sleep. He had bought the hostel in 1802 from the government, but had never made fortune from his establishment, for the building had an unpleasant history and it was said that the place was haunted—of course no soul had ever been able to prove this, only, one passenger had once come running down the streets in his nightshirt screaming his head off about a spectre kicking him in his sleep, and another passenger had seen her hair turn white in the span of a night and had become completely mute, thus making her unable to reveal what torment had overcome her.

Prouvaire and Bahorel, being unacquainted with these stories, headed towards this hostel believing it to be quite homely and not completely unpleasant in appearance. It was about eight o'clock in the evening when they arrived, and the night had already let its black veil fall over the land. The moon was not yet full.

The two friends took a room and asked for dinner, which the daughter, Mme Lemoine, promptly provided. They were in appearance the only clients.

“ _Aubergiste_ , excuse me,” called Bahorel upon noticing the emptiness of the dining room; “Are there so little passengers in these regions for your humble establishment to be this quiet? Your rooms are fine in quality, the food is decent, truly I do not understand.”

Collard sighed; “I'm afraid it is less a matter of touristic attraction than it is one of superstition—I do know that _Le Tintoret_ on the other side of town has many more clients.”

“Of superstition, you say?” asked Prouvaire.

“Indeed,” said Collard with another heavy sigh from which all of the exhaustion and misery in the world seemed to be escaping, “It is quite foolish in truth.”

Prouvaire, who was always fond of a good ghost story said: “Pray, do tell us more!”

“Only if you promise not to leave after I tell you.”

“Why, of course not!”

And so M. Collard began his tale. The establishment was, before being bought off the government in 1802, the house of bourgeois guillotined in 1795 for counter-revolutionary activities. Collard, who back in the day still possessed his sight, had seen the man get dragged from his house whilst his wife screamed and their baby screamed, and all of the domestics with them. The activities for which this man was being executed revolved mostly around claims of dark magic, and it was said he had tried to communicate with the ghosts of Robespierre, of Marat and other men of the kind, to bring them back to life. He had also been, until their abolition, a member of a masonic lodge of the Montagnard doctrine. After his death, his wife had sworn vengeance on those who had killed her husband and went on a murderous rampage, killing the mayor, the mayor's accountant, clerk and secretary, then her baby, and then herself, during a dinner party she had organised in the house on the one year anniversary of her husband's death. After this rather morbid event, no one wanted to buy the house, and the State took possession of it.

“Is that all?” asked Bahorel, “Are the people here really this fearful of a sordid little story?”

“The people claim,” answered Collard, “That the place has been haunted ever since then; one of the neighbours claims she has heard a baby crying from inside the house, which is impossible given the fact no one has ever brought a baby here in all the years I have worked here. Another one says she has seen spectres moving around, but that's simply preposterous and a calumny to get my establishment shut down. I can assure you, there is nothing to worry about here in this place, it is as safe as sound!”

Prouvaire and Bahorel believed him. One knows how superstitious country folk can be.

Dinner was fine, Mme Lemoine spoke very little and the two friends soon had to give up on attempting any conversation with her. Regularly she sent her father unreadable looks and often she opened her mouth, took a sharp breath as if to speak, only to remain silent. At ten o'clock she left, and M. Collard bid goodnight to Bahorel and Prouvaire as they headed to their room.

“Poor Collard,” said Prouvaire whilst changing into his night shirt, “It must be terribly difficult to manage a hostel in his situation.”

“I'm pretty sure half of what he said was twaddle but it made for good entertainment; gives a certain folklore to his establishment, even if he picked the name terribly— _Au bon vivant_ , goddamn.”

“You think he made it all up?”

Bahorel sighed in exasperation; “By Jove, _of course_ Jehan! I love a good supernatural story once in a while as much as any other fellow but you can't tell me someone was guillotined on claims of dark magic! This was thirty years ago! The chap was probably as mad as a hatter and went around professing Jacobin ideas right during the White Terror, and it scared the locals, they found his shrine or whatever and that was it, the dude was sent on his merry way; _adios amigo_.”

“I guess you're right,” said Prouvaire. Bahorel laughed.

“As our dear Nodier reminds us, don't let yourself be tricked into believing these stories; at the end of the day, no one has ever seen a ghost, or a vampire, or a werewolf, or a revenant. It is all fiction and figments of man's imagination.”

“Combeferre would fight you on that one.”

“Combeferre lives in his own world; he believes what he wants to believe and for that I envy him.”

Prouvaire slipped under the sheets and Bahorel soon joined him. It was still common in these parts of the country to sleep in the same bed as a friend, for two people in a bed can keep each other warm, especially in Autumn when the temperature begins to fall and one does not have a stove in one's room.

They fell asleep soon thereafter, exhausted by their journey.

-

It was around one o'clock in the morning, when the moon has barely begun its slow descent and the sky is covered in lactescent clouds, that Prouvaire woke up. Shadows at this hour resemble lurking bodies and every noise sounds suspicious to the ear. Prouvaire, half-awake, heard the cries of a baby.

Immediately he shook Bahorel who grumbled something incomprehensible under his breath and whispered; “My friend, wake up! Do you hear it?”

“Hear what? Go back to sleep Jean, you're dreaming.”

Prouvaire shook his head and grabbed his friend's arm; “No, shush, listen!”

Bahorel paused his shifting to lean an ear. Everything was silent at first, and just as Bahorel was about to comment on Prouvaire's imagination, the cries of the baby resumed and the man sat up in the bed from how surprised they left him.

“Bloody hell,” he whispered, “You're right!”

He scurried out of bed and made for the door, but Prouvaire stopped him. From beneath the door came a strange, faint white glow, and Prouvaire rushed for the keyhole to see its provenance. He had to restrain himself from gasping in horror at what he saw—on the other side of the door was a woman in an out of fashion night gown, tall, lean, and, more importantly, glowing as bright as the moon itself, as if she had come from there exactly. Bahorel took his place and saw just enough of her before she walked on, towards the end of the corridor, from where the crying seemingly came.

Once she had reached the room from which came the crying, Prouvaire let out a deep, suppressed sigh and whispered; “We do agree that she was no mortal, do we?”

“Positively a ghost, I say.”

Now, it is important at this point in the tale to give further explanation on who our two brave young heroes were. As we have mentioned earlier on, Prouvaire was a poet, and Bahorel was theoretically a student. Bahorel took pride in growing a thick, refined beard that easily ate half his face and paid great attention to his wardrobe—he was careful never to dress badly. Prouvaire, on the contrary, took it upon himself to never dress well, and thus, had worn, on that same day, a hideous purple coat with a yellow waistcoat embroidered with out of fashion green parrots, and a top hat with a red velvet ribbon tied around it. Together they formed the most eclectic and eccentric couple in all the Quercy, and it was difficult not to spot them from a mile away.

Prouvaire and Bahorel belonged to this group of young people whose opinions made for very unseemly conversations in the upper class and who took great pride in calling themselves the _Jeune France_. They used the English word “fashionable” (pronounced, with the French accent, _fassonâble_ ) excessively, held Shakespeare in the highest esteem, wrote rousseauist poetry, venerated gothic architecture and had dug through ancient folklore to revive local traditions and myths—for this they worshiped the British who were the masters of this kind of literature.

Both men were therefore experts in matters of ghosts and ghouls, having read and written about them abundantly, and both knew that, if anything, the least to do when confronted to such an exceptional situation was to investigate as any excellent protagonist in any fantastical story of the kind would do.

“What should we do?” asked Prouvaire once the glow had faded after the ghost disappeared, “Follow her?”

“That sounds like a terrible idea,” replied Bahorel, “Let's do it.”

They exited their room in their nightshirts, bare feet against the icy hardwood floor, and followed the path the glowing lady had taken down the dark, unlit corridor. They guided themselves with the faint light that came from under one of the doors at the bottom of the corridor, clearly the room in which the lady now was. The baby cries had stopped and were now replaced by a faint humming sound that vaguely resembled a melody that may or may have not been familiar to the ear of the two men. In the oppressive silence of the night, where only this humming and the sinister noises of old houses could be heard, both men shivered with dread at what stood ahead.

They stopped in front of the door and again, peaked through the keyhole which unfortunately provided very little clearance on the scene taking place in the room. Prouvaire, very carefully, opened the door just a notch, enough for two souls to take a peak into the room with one eye. Indeed the lady was there, rocking a baby in her arms and gently singing the nursery rhyme ' _Dodo l'enfant do_ ', very slowly, in a very airy tone that made her voice sound unreal, as if she was no more than a figment in a dream, distant and yet present all the same. The two men were so obnubilated by the scene that they failed to notice the new appearance that came from the stairs and, ignoring them completely, traversed the door to the room, piercing Bahorel's arm in the process, and drifting towards the lady.

He took the two men by such surprise both let out loud gasps of fear and the lady turned around towards the door.

“Shit,” said Bahorel, and both ran back to their bedroom, locking the door and slipping into the bed, closing their eyes and pretending to sleep as though children caught out of bed by their mother.

“What if,” whispered Prouvaire, “She kicks us like she did to that poor man?”

“Hush!”

They waited, under the sheets, trembling and sweating profusely with fear. The faint glow was once again perceptible from under the door, and just as both our heroes believed the lady would come in, the glow faded away and their room was once again bathed in darkness. Bahorel let out a sigh of relief and Prouvaire very much believed he could have fainted with fear.

“What do we do now?” asked Prouvaire once he had gotten over his original shock, his voice no more than a murmur in case anyone else could hear him.

“Sleep.”

As this was no unreasonable advice, both promptly fell into the arms of Morpheus, though rather restlessly and fitfully.

-

Two hours later Prouvaire, whose sleep was usually very light, woke up again at the sudden appearance of a bright light in the room. He startled with fear and woke Bahorel in the process who managed to keep a calm and serene expression on his face at the unnatural appearance standing before them: it was the glowing lady again, though she had changed from her previous nightgown to an evening gown from the 1790's, sewn with pieces of moon and stars that illuminated the entire room.

“Hello, milady,” said Prouvaire, as it seemed Bahorel was rendered speechless, “To what do we owe you the honour of this visit?”

“We are having a party downstairs,” answered the lady with the lilt and accent of the people of her time; “Will you care to join us?”

Before Prouvaire could decline, Bahorel said; “Why, of course, Madame.”

She smiled and left the room upon his words, and the two men glanced at each other. A long journey awaited them the very next day, it would not have been good to be too exhausted. But how could they possibly refuse this to a ghost? Declining would have been madness, possibly suicidal in Bahorel's mind, which Prouvaire contested on claims that ghosts could absolutely be compassionate and understanding. Eventually, they crawled out of bed, still in their nightshirts, and went into the corridor. Faint music, as if coming from afar, could be heard, and as they leaned over the balustrade and saw the commotion in the foyer where they had had dinner on that same night, their mouths fell open.

Dozens of ghosts seemed to be crowding the reception, all wearing flamboyant attires from various centuries, some with powdered wigs, others with lace collerettes, with breeches or ample dresses, with long or short hair, and all dressed in such bright, glowing materials it looked as though the angels themselves had tailored their clothes. The music was quiet, there was food and wine on the tables that had been pushed on the sides, and a dance was being performed in the middle of the room. Candles lit up the place, thus giving the appearance of a real ball. Prouvaire and Bahorel descended slowly.

Amongst the ghosts, a few were holding their heads awkwardly under their armpits, or danced with a dagger planted in their bosom. No one seemed to mind really, and in fact all were consumed entirely by their dance, as if there was nothing of greater importance than to perform it in that moment. The music, as they reached the ground floor and therefore the centre of the party had grown louder.

A fellow whose head kept on rolling off his neck offered them wine, which they took and drank easily. Both were too obnubilated and consumed by the sight of all this sumptuousness to even question the provenance of the wine, whether it would kill them or not. M. Collard was nowhere in sight, neither was Mme Lemoine.

The lady from earlier on approached them, floating more than walking, and smiled pleasantly at them.

“Well, do you wish not to dance?” she asked as airily as before, moving to the sound of the current ballet that was being played--Prouvaire thought he recognised Lully.

“What's all this?” asked Bahorel, just as all the ghosts formed a great circle together and swapped partners, all in a great, loud murmur that would have made any human's hair stand up at the back of their neck; “Who are you fellows—this I mean, other than ghosts?”

“I am Mme Barbier, M. Collard has probably told you about me. I was the previous owner of the house with my husband. Our guests are all the previous owners, who've died over the years, centuries. See, over there there is Mme d'***, who tragically passed away in childbirth in 1672. Here is M. ***, dead in a horse riding accident in 1743. Mlle de ***, poisoned by her rival in the sixteenth century, her lover, who preferred to join her to the grave than carry on living without her... We all gather here once a month to party together, as the house has been, in the past, a place rich in history and events, and that, from what I heard, still feeds the imaginary of the locals.” She smiled and took a sip from her champagne flute, already making to drift away, into the dance, as the music changed to something more modern. She said, however, before leaving; “I must say that I am quite surprised you accepted my offer, most mortals would have cowered away. Your presence brings great joy to my heart and I wish for you to have a most pleasant evening; enjoy the wine, enjoy the food, let the music and the dance take you, and worry not about tomorrow.”

And so Bahorel and Prouvaire followed Mme Barbier's instructions.

They drank more and soon joined into the macabre dance, the wine rapidly going to their heads and the food pulling them in a sort of hallucinogenic trance that compelled them to dance, dance until they could no longer. They could not physically touch the ghosts, but they pretended they could; they danced with ladies and gentlemen alike, they laughed and listened to all these people from all these various times; saw not the passing of time, for time had simply stopped on that night, and soon their bodies were entirely possessed by the spirit of the party. The music grew constantly in energy and speed, escalating like a Mozart symphony; the air became gradually lighter and yet warmer, the laughter and mores of the eighteenth century (which let us be reminded was named the century of libertinism) swallowed them all until there was nothing, nothing but a great, mad rush of colours and lights and wine and music, and both our heroes were too lost in their own trance to care or notice anything that was happening around them.

And then, everything stopped.

-

The next morning, Prouvaire woke up in a start to the sound of the chirping birds and a dog barking in the distance. It was already light outside, and Bahorel was fast asleep by his side, his arms wrapped around his pillow.

“For Pete's sake,” he cursed, pulling himself out of bed. He pulled the curtains open, unlocked the shutters, and as the light invaded the room, his friend groaned and shifted in the bed; “Wake up, Bahorel, it's at least a half hour past nine.”

“Mhm,” replied Bahorel, “I'll join you for breakfast, you can go already.”

“Are you hungover?” asked Prouvaire, who himself, despite having drunk enough to drench an entire regiment, surprisingly felt very light and was not overcome by any dreadful headaches. Had it all been a dream? He was uncertain. How had they made it back to their beds? He remembered not. Downstairs, M. Collard and his daughter could be heard conversing lightly.

There was a brief pause, as if Bahorel was evaluating Prouvaire's words, before rolling around and saying; “No?”

“You...” started Prouvaire, but he suddenly realised he knew not how to put words on what had happened; “Did you also... ?”

“Oh yeah, definitely.”

Knowing the events of the night had not all been a figment of his imagination brought a concoction of horror and tremendous amazement to his soul; he felt not particularly tired, he felt not sick, he was still in possession of his body and, upon consulting his appearance in the mirror, had not turned into a glowing spectre. He was alive, he looked just as he had the day prior, and for a very long, silent moment, he truly did question whether it had all been a dream or not.

Bahorel climbed out of bed, prepared himself for the day, and Prouvaire followed suit. Bahorel looked just as confused as his friend and even accidentally cut himself whilst shaving his neck. The drop of blood was normal, a crimson shade of red, and Bahorel cleaned himself with a towel.

Downstairs, everything was placed as if nothing had happened. There was no candle wax all over the floor, the tables were placed in the centre of the room, no smell of food, alcohol and rich perfumes encumbered the foyer, and the manager was seated at a table with his daughter, seemingly clueless of the events of the night.

“Good morning!” he called once he heard their footsteps in the stairs, “Slept well?”

“Lightly,” answered Prouvaire carefully, “And you?”

“Like a log!”

Mme Lemoine was staring at the two clients with an unreadable look upon her face, as if she knew something but felt no need to denounce it. Perhaps she did know. She did not say. After a moment, she stood up and left to make breakfast, and the three remaining men sat in silence for a moment. Collard, blind, old, had not heard a thing. Not the loud music, not the laughter, not the moving around, not the breaking of plates and glasses. It left both our heroes in a certain state of incomprehension. They soon resigned themselves to small talk, spoke of their next halt, of their final destination, the great Spanish cities, and at last, after breakfast, they bid their farewells and left Cahors, towards the warmer skies of the Iberian peninsula.

Prouvaire and Bahorel never went back to that hostel and never heard about Collard and his daughter again either; however they kept a fond yet uncertain memory of that night, the frontier between dream and reality blurred by the frenesy, the alcohol and the supernatural essence of the entire event. It made for excellent stories amongst their Romantic circles.

As for the hostel, it is impossible to tell exactly what became of it from then onward; we know it burned down in 1870 in an accident, and was left in ruins for the best of half a century after that. We know also that in 1950, a certain M. *** built a hotel on the patch of land where the hostel had once been, which he named _La dame bleue_ , in reference to the professed legends of this glowing lady, who wandered the corridors at night to tuck her baby in. No one has, in this new establishment, ever complained about nocturnal disturbances, or ghosts kicking them in their sleep, or phantomatic balls in the foyer.


End file.
